


Anything That Isn't This

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Implied/Ambiguous Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:50:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4968706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gary shows up on Jamie's doorstep a year and eleven months into the apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything That Isn't This

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [沉沉入睡](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5432048) by [Dingdong (Dingydong)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dingydong/pseuds/Dingdong)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Что угодно, лишь бы не это](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6632452) by [ilargia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilargia/pseuds/ilargia)



> for [saltstreets](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets) because it wouldn't exist without her. Thanks for talking to me about it till I stopped whining and wrote it, and listening to me whine about it, and holding my hand as I whined about it, and correcting my grammar. I really, really hope you like it <3 ily 
> 
> Also giant thanks to [Imkerin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin) for making my fic readable lmao (as always) and [raumdeuter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter) for providing encouragement when I was procrastinating. ily both...
> 
> i was even more of an ass to ppl in this one than usual so uh, to reiterate even tho im posting this on...ao3..none of this is real. never happened. never (crosses fingers) will.

 

 

Carra’s face when he opens the door is a sight to behold. The corner of his mouth twitches and a vein in his forehead starts throbbing, very faintly.

They stare at each other for a bit. The day is overcast, which isn’t unusual. From far away there’s the sound of sirens, carried by the wind.

“So are you going to let me in?” Gary says, finally. Jamie looks at him for a beat and Gary feels- a thin thread of fear, almost. He could say no. He’s got no reason to say yes.

Jamie shrugs and opens the door wider. Gary supposes the etiquettes of almost friendship still hold at the end of the world.

 

-

 

“So,” Jamie starts, awkwardly.

They're sitting in Jamie's living room. It was probably once spacious, but in the quiet dark it seems like a mausoleum.

“Is it just you?” Jamie says.

“Yeah. Everyone else is in hospital,” Gary says. _In hospital._ That was the difference, he reminds himself again, like touching a talisman. “You too?”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, scratching his head.

Gary clears his throat. “I was thinking of staying, for a bit. If I can.”

“Okay,” Jamie says, head lowered, not looking at him. “I'll clean out one of the rooms for you.”

“Really?” Gary says, starting to smile. “No questions or anything?”

Jamie looks up, almost surprised. “What?”

“Hi. I'm Gary Neville,” Gary says.

He thinks that Jamie isn't going to rise to the bait, but he looks up slowly, grins at Gary.

“You’re not too bad,” Jamie says. Gary starts laughing at his grudging tone.

“You’re not too bad,” he mimics back, raising his voice two octaves higher and pulling the worst Scouse accent he can. Jamie rolls his eyes. “You’re not too bad for a Manchester cunt, Gary.”

“You said it, Neville,” Jamie says, getting up, flicking Gary on the shoulder as he passes by him. “Want lunch?”

“What did you say?” Gary says, unable to let it go now that they're back in the old groove of things. The banter comes out rusty, but it aches in its familiarity, brings back visceral memories of the past. “I just heard a mumble.”

Jamie throws up a middle finger over his shoulder, but Gary can hear him stifle a laugh.

 

-

 

Jamie fills him in on what's been happening in Liverpool, which isn’t much different from what’s happening in Manchester. After the initial wave of panic everything settled into lethargy. Surely someone out there is working on a cure. Surely any day now they're going to wake up.

The days drag on and they don’t. The electricity is still fine, as is the running water. You can still get fresh fruit and vegetables from a couple different supermarkets downtown. It’s strange how normal everything seems, except all the houses down Jamie's street are silent, their inhabitants asleep or gone.

They bike to the store after lunch, even though Gary gestures at his car on the driveway. Jamie shrugs, says, “No point wasting gas.”

Gary doesn't ask him what he could be conserving gas for. It feels strange, cycling through the silent streets, flat-tired cars on either side of them. They pass three people the whole journey: a woman with her baby in her arm, tugging along a young boy. The boy twists his head to look at them with bright, curious eyes.

Gary turns away, focusing on Jamie in front of him instead, on the stiff set of his shoulders and the bend of his elbows.

 

-

 

Jamie buys a lot of coffee. Gary was never a coffee person, not even after the epidemic; he didn't see the point in staying up to delay the inevitable. He leans on the countertop, watching Jamie attempt to work the french press.

“You make shit coffee, Carragher,” Gary says.

“Really? I make shit coffee? Why don’t you try yourself, then?” Jamie says, rolling his eyes. Gary takes the plunger from him. He's seen Emma do it too many times to count.

“What's the point?” he asks, conversational.

Jamie's quiet. “Every day could be the last one, right.”

Gary pours out the coffee, thinks about all the nights he'd stared at the ceiling, thinking _What if. What if. What if._ And waking up the next morning.

He keeps waking up, still. It was a question of whether it counted for anything at all. He sips it, watching Jamie stir spoonfuls of sugar into his.

 

“Did you hear it’s slower in Australia?” Gary says idly, looking through Jamie's bookshelves. He picks one out at random, flicking through the pages.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jamie snorts, impatient. “They say everything.”

“What do you reckon? Do you think there’s still someone who’ll fly a plane out?”

“What are you going to do? Just drive up and offer him money to take you along?” Jamie says, half laughing at him, eyes squinty.

Gary says, poker faced, “Drive up and hope he’s a United fan.”

“What if he’s a Liverpool fan and takes me instead?” Jamie says. Gary rolls his eyes.

 

Jamie sits up. “Or what if, like, he’s a West Ham fan or something.”

 

“Then do you really want to get on his fucking plane?” Jamie laughs out loud and Gary hides his smile behind the book.

 

They read until Gary yawns. He can't help it. It's probably almost dawn already. Jamie looks up and puts his book down, gets off the couch.

“Room?”

“Yeah,” Gary says, stretching. His neck makes a weird clicking sound. His eyelids feel too heavy, and sleep almost seems like a good thing. They go upstairs and Jamie shows him a room with sheets on the bed but empty otherwise.

 

“Well. Good night, Neville,” Jamie says at the doorway, voice odd.

“Goodnight,” Gary says back, throat constricting. What if that’s the last word he ever says? He gets into bed without turning the light off and stares at the ceiling in the dim light of the lamp until the corners of his eyes start watering. He blinks, and before he knows it he lets his eyelids slide shut and it’s blissful darkness, all around.

 

-

 

Gary wakes up and breathes in, deep, like a man breaking the surface of the ocean. There's a brief, bright moment when he wonders where he is, but it floods back. Carra's house. Liverpool.

The spare room is one of 3 on the floor, facing out across the lawn and Carra's empty swimming pool with fall leaves piled in one of the corners. The midday sun through the curtains makes last night's fears seem surreal. Gary yawns. _I'm still here,_ he thinks, and it suddenly sends his heart jumping in his chest, but only for a second or two. He gets out of bed and goes downstairs.

 

Jamie isn't anywhere to be found. He's left a note on the table. _If you see this then it means you're still awake. Congrats. Out for job, be back later._

There's nothing much to do around the house, and it feels intrusive to wander around the rooms when Jamie's not here. He's been over once or twice before, but only briefly, never stepping foot outside the living room.

He reads for a bit, until the silence gets under his skin and forces him out of the door. He leaves the front door unlocked and wanders down the street.

Jamie's property is one of many, each one high walled and reclusive. Gary wonders if the middle of the city had more people, and if it’s worth going to. He weighs the chance of being spat at if recognized. Liverpool will always be Liverpool, apocalypse or not.

In the end he only gets to the end of the road. There's a gated compound and it looks like some sort of school or training complex. There's a field with goal posts on either end, the nets rotting apart.

Gary wraps his hands around the steel bars, looking at the abandoned pitch. It seems stupid, missing football when perhaps more important things are now obsolete too. Opera, although possibly that’s still happening. Swing dance. Thai food. Whatever it is people miss. He looks at the tattered nets and misses, viscerally, football. Looking at it makes him think about Academy days, and Academy days makes him think of Becks, as usual.

Becks was one of the first to go. Gary had looked at his last text often, until he gave up charging his phone since service was erratic at best, and he'd run out of people to call.

_Coming to London next month, meet up?_

Next month turned to last month turned to last year. Gary feels that slow throbbing ache in his heart, faint residue of a past pain. Becks isn’t dead. He has to remind himself of that fact a lot recently. None of them are dead.

 

-

 

At first it hadn't felt like a real thing that was happening. There were isolated cases, all over the world, like the bird flu or ebola or something. And then within two weeks it became serious, faster than anyone could react. One day in late March Manchester United was top of the league, 5 points clear of Chelsea, and by April the Premier League was gone and nobody was talking about football any more. The last time Gary had set foot in Old Trafford, the bees were humming loud over the nodding heads of dandelions growing rampant over the once immaculately maintained pitch.

 

-

 

It hadn't felt real until Phil stopped answering his messages. Gary went to hospital after he got the call and sat there, looking at his brother's sleeping form. Phil's eyelids flickering like he was having a vivid dream, hands twitching sometimes. Mostly he was very still, peaceful looking, heartbeat a steady up and down on the monitor next to the bed. A sort of coma, the doctors had called it. A flu epidemic, except the effects were limited to the infected patient falling into deep sleep. Drastic measures were taken in attempts to cure the early few who caught it; electroshock therapy and adrenaline injections. Nothing worked. Whoever caught it fell asleep and didn't wake up.

 

-

 

After Phil came Becks, of course. It still made headlines. He sees Victoria's calm face on the television, immaculately made up, only her eyes faintly red, holding Romeo and Brooklyn's hands. After that came everyone else, day by day. The newspaper carried long lists of the sleepers. Emma had asked him, worried, if they should move somewhere else. Out of Manchester, maybe to somewhere in the country. Gary thought about it, but all signs point to the same conclusion- there was no running from it. They went to bed at regular hours and wake up in the morning, and the girls went to school.

In retrospect, Gary thinks, maybe he should have taken them and flown out. Anywhere else. Done something instead of sat around waiting for a cure. It was too late, but a nice thought nevertheless, that somehow the four of them could have escaped it all, been happy in a small town in the middle of nowhere.

 

-

 

Jamie comes home when it's evening. Gary hears him come in through the door, footsteps hesitant as they approach the kitchen. Gary’s making coffee, for lack of better things to do. There’s stacks of it in the cupboards, more than they could ever actually finish, probably.

“Did you raid a supermarket?” Gary asks, not turning his head as Jamie walks in. Jamie laughs, brings his own mug over.

“No. Well, kind of.”

“Where's your job?” Gary asks, handing him the coffee.

“Drinking water plant,” Jamie says.

“Really?”

“Been half a year, actually. They needed the people. It's all automated so it's easy, press a few buttons and everything keeps going.” Jamie shrugs.

“It's been more than a year since it happened,” Gary says, wondering.

“It's closer to two, now,” Jamie says, and pours another cup.

 

-

 

They settle into something not really a routine. Gary's reluctant to call it that. The thing about the epidemic is- it’s too easy to forget it’s even happening, when morning came and you keep waking up, and waking up, and waking up. Surely it’s only something that happens to other people. It’s exhausting to live every day like it was your last; the only other option is to live every day as though it was just another day.

There’s a cluster of red dots under his jaw when he's brushing his teeth, squinting absently at the mirror. Gary wonders if it's some sort of allergic reaction or something, but it slips his mind until he catches sight of it sometimes. It gets no better, and no worse. Almost forgettable.

Jamie has his job and Gary stays home, feeling cooped up and antsy, wondering why he’s still sticking around. Jamie doesn't push him, but when Gary asks, “Do you still need people where you work?” he lifts a shoulder absently and says, “Not really.” So Gary stays home, reads everything Jamie has on his bookshelves- not much apart from biographies and, curiously enough, golf analyses- then finds a bookshop and hauls back a stack of them, dusty paperbacks that no one's touched for ages.

He doesn't know why he’s still in Liverpool, either. They co-exist without being in each other's space. There's only that span of time between Jamie coming home and them inevitably falling asleep, where they talk about things from before while making dinner. It's only a little strange, saying, “Remember that red card in 2004? Not a red card,” while Jamie slices vegetables unevenly on the cutting board.

What follows is inevitably Jamie protesting, shoving him something to slice while he preheats the oven, and going on a rant about Manchester United's many faults. Gary would rather saw off his own leg than admit that that’s his intention all along, that it’s hard to keep a straight face when he wanted to grin at Carra's outrage, but maybe that's why he’s here. To listen to Jamie Carragher talk about a football club that doesn’t exist anymore, to stem that tide of insistent sorrow and dread that threatens whenever it’s time to go to sleep.

 

They adjust to the electricity getting more erratic, to the water cutting off some days. It’s routine, whether Gary wants to admit it or not.

He goes to bed dissatisfied, without exactly knowing why. Often he doesn't even make it upstairs before falling asleep, stubbornly trying to stay up as late as Jamie does. Often the last thing he sees is the upper half of Jamie's face, frowning over the edge of the book.

 

-

 

“How come you're still here?” Gary asks one night.

Jamie blinks at him, sprinkles salt into the water that they have boiling on the camping stove. “Where would I go?”

“Why aren't you off in Bora Bora or something, living every day like it's your last?” Gary says, making quotations around the last bit of his sentence with two fingers.

“Everyone I care about's in Liverpool,” Jamie says, shrugging. “There's no point going anywhere else.”

Jamie seems subdued after dinner, not rising to Gary's baits as usual, instead treating his attempts at conversation to a sullen look or an irritated grunt.

“What's gotten into you?” Gary snaps finally, angry now as well. He's expecting an argument, for Jamie to yell and maybe throw something and then storm upstairs and for everything to go back to the not-normal it was before. Instead Jamie doesn't say anything, shuts the book he was reading and drops it to the floor. He looks tired.

“What's wrong?” Gary says, hating the way his voice sounds so loud and unnatural.

“It's been two years.”

“Yeah?” Gary says, not understanding.

Jamie's rubbing at his eyes. His cheekbones stand out more than usual in the lamplight, making him look gaunt and hollow-eyed. Gary wonders how many hours he sleeps each night.

“Nicola, Mia, James. It's been two years, exactly,” Jamie says. Gary doesn't know how to comfort him. He wishes they'd just carried on pretending everything was fine, kept at the ritual of ordinariness even though the rug was permanently threatening to pull itself out from under them.

“My girls were terrified of going to bed eventually,” Gary says. “I had to get into bed with Sophie sometimes when she had nightmares.”

Jamie looks up at him, frowning. Gary can't figure out what he's thinking.

“I was reading her that story about- Sleeping Beauty?” Gary says slowly. “She said, _I’m afraid of going to sleep daddy._ ”

Jamie was looking at his hands spread out on his lap. The light threw careful shade on his profile, and he was very still, barely blinking.

“I said _Don’t be_. I said _go to bed, I’ll see you in the morning._ ”

The silence hung heavy between them like a invisible beast. It had its claws hooked in Gary’s lungs.

“None of them woke up the next morning. I called the ambulance, and I watched them drive away, and then I drove here.”

Jamie isn’t saying anything, but he’s looking at Gary now, something terrible and understanding in his eyes. _How could you bear to still be here?_ Gary wants to ask. But it was kind of obvious, really. There’s nowhere else to go.

 

Jamie clears his throat. “Want a drink?” he asks, getting up.

“Yeah,” Gary says, grateful, and he felt so tired he might never sleep again.

 

-

 

Jamie comes back with a bottle of whiskey and they demolish it slowly, first watching old matches- Jamie recovering enough to yell at the television, red faced, and Gary laughing at him – and then when the electricity gives out for the night, Jamie brings out cards and they play beside the camping lanterns.

“You're cheating,” Gary says, disbelieving.

“What?” Jamie slurs. A card falls out of his sleeve and Gary stares at him for a beat longer before doubling over, howling.

“That wasn't even in my hand,” Jamie complains, kicking Gary in the shins.

He reaches over to grab the cards out of Gary’s hand but Gary dodges, yelping. Gary’s laughing, arm stretched above his head, other hand warding off Jamie’s grabbing hand. They tussle like three year olds, Jamie’s sharp elbows digging into Gary’s side. Gary groans, shoves his shoulders hard. Jamie’s leg slides between his own and Jamie’s got a hand splayed awkwardly against his chest.

Gary stops struggling. Jamie shifts. Gary looks up at him, surprised out of his drunken haze. He can feel Jamie’s dick half hard against his thigh. He swallows, and his suddenly dry throat clicks. He could say something and break the awkwardness and Jamie could go back to his side of the couch and they could finish the card game and maybe swap match stories after and try to stay awake as long as they can- or he could. He could-

Gary reaches up, presses his palm against Jamie’s zipper, looking straight into his eyes like it’s a challenge. He feels Jamie’s sharp intake of breath more than he sees it, a soft gust of air on his face. Jamie’s shuffling back to sit on his heels, undoing his belt. Gary sits up, but he doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he just stares at Jamie. He’s afraid to break eye contact, like they’re both going along with it like a dare, waiting for the other to crack first. Jamie reaches over and tugs Gary’s shirt over his head and Gary lets him, the cold shock of Jamie’s hands on his chest making him breathe in, sharp.

Jamie’s still looking straight into his eyes as he reaches between them and palms a hand over Gary’s dick. Gary bucks up, bites his lip; their cocks slide against each other and Jamie groans, dropping his forehead to Gary’s shoulder. It breaks a spell or something and everything speeds up, Jamie’s hand frantic now between them.

Jamie keeps his face turned away even though Gary’s biting down on his shoulder to stop himself saying anything. It wouldn’t have been coherent. The world gets hazy and faded at the edges and then blurs reluctantly back into proper shape. Jamie makes a sound when he comes, too vulnerable even though it’s half muffled in the cushion that’s wedged under Gary’s neck. After, they lie still for a while, Gary with his eyes closed -because it’s safe to have them closed, right now, with his heart hammering away and Carra’s warmth enveloping him- and then Jamie gets up. He gets his clothes and walks out of the living room, leaving Gary in the dimly lit circle of the camping lamps, dimmer now that it's just him.

Gary feels at a loss, somehow, but also less afraid; of what, exactly, he isn't sure. There is just this certainty in his chest, so he doesn't bother getting up off the couch before letting his eyes slide shut.

 

-

 

Gary doesn’t realize he fell asleep until he wakes up the next morning. Jamie throws a scrunched up tissue ball at his face even though Gary's already got his eyes open.

“Breakfast,” Jamie announces, brusque.

They tread carefully around each other, careful not to let their hands touch when passing the plates. Jamie hovers awkwardly by the doorway before going to work, leaving Gary still half awake and mostly hungover, poking at the eggs on his plate.

 

-

 

They get back into the normal groove of things eventually, neither of them mentioning what happened that night. Then it happens again, Jamie shoving him up against the wall and getting a hand down his pants, Gary grinding their hips together desperately.

They fuck one night in Jamie's room and Gary gets up afterwards, about to go to his own room down the hall. Jamie doesn't say anything, but he puts a hand around Gary's wrist briefly. Gary can't see his face very well in the dim light. He stays in bed, dragging the sheets over despite Jamie's muffled protests and rolling over on to his side.

 

-

 

They go to Anfield one day. It wasn't premeditated, Jamie at first innocuously asking if he wanted to go downtown and get more groceries. Halfway down the street when they can see the stadium in the distance it clicks and Gary yells, “Oi, Carragher. I'm not going.”

Jamie yells over his shoulder, obscenely cheerful: “Come on.”

Gary thinks about turning the bike back around and going home. He hasn't set foot in a stadium since Old Trafford. He doesn't, in the end; just rolls his eyes and pedals harder to catch up to Jamie.

-

 

Looking at Anfield brings back strangely mixed emotions. Gary had thought he'd be pleased with the way the stadium's falling apart, the main stand a wreck and the famous Kop end with the roof fallen in. He isn't. But he isn't particularly affected either, although the thought of Old Trafford now in a similar state makes his heart wrench: the Theatre of Dreams now for no one but ghosts.

Jamie barely looks at it, only leans his bike against the wall and whistles softly as he walks into the gates. Gary wonder how often he comes here.

They stand at the goalpost closest to the Kop end, surveying the ruin. Jamie's mouth twists wryly as he kicks at the dead patches of grass. It’s a little unfair. People still go to churches. Gary can count the number of dilapidated churches he's seen on one hand.

He thinks about the time he yelled at the home supporters after scoring, remembers feeling so proud of having that crest on his chest, so proud of being United, so proud of being able to rub it every Liverpool fan's face. The world had seemed so clear and straightforward. It’s hard to believe that something like that could have existed in the world they’re living in now.

“What do you reckon it's all for?” Jamie says, mockingly contemplative. He gently knocks his knuckles against the goalpost.

“Football?” Gary asks.

“Yeah,” Jamie says, looking up at the stands. “Or not that. Just- everything before.”

Gary thinks about it. “The way I think about it. All of that- before- everything we did and felt- It’s not like the paint scraped off a goalpost, right? It’s like the metal bit. The part that makes up the goalpost. If you scratch off whatever else there is on the surface, it’s still right there. It’ll be there all the time.”

Jamie looks at him, a strange expression on his face.

“What?” Gary says, a little unnerved.

Jamie doesn’t say anything, just shrugs and turns away.

 

Someone had tied a scarf around the gates at Anfield. Jamie reaches out and touches it when they're leaving, the tattered red wool falling apart easily under his hands. Gary can still make out the number 8 in yellow.

“Where's Stevie?” he asks, thinking he knows the answer.

Jamie turns away, hands stuck in his pockets. “I don't know.”

“In hospital?” Gary says, confused.

“Maybe,” Jamie says. “He stopped answering his phone, but there's been no news. I thought Alex would call at least.”

Gary doesn't mention what could have happened, otherwise, but still.

 

After that they wander down to city center and then Albert Docks.

“Charming, isn't it,” Jamie says, cheerful. The river sparkles under the sun, brisk little wavelets catching the light.

“Yeah,” Gary says. “Liverpool's really nice. There's no one around to spit on me, too.”

Jamie snickers, leaning on the railing. The wind tousles his hair and Gary watches him unfold the collar of his jacket and hunch his shoulders, like a ruffled bird. It's nice, for a bit, until Gary realises what’s bothering him. The quiet. Nothing but the waves slapping the concrete of the dockside. No boats or people or the background rumble of traffic.  The world stilled to just them and the river.

 

“What do you think will happen?” Jamie asks, finally.

Gary looks out at the Mersey winding out to sea. “I think they'll wake up,” he says. “I think one day they'll wake up.”

Jamie doesn't say anything but exhales, his breath frosting a cloud in the cold air. They stay for a while, looking over the water.

 

-

 

Later, when they’re again playing the same ritual of staying awake until their brains shut down against their will, Jamie says very softly, “Dunno what I was thinking but. Was about to kiss you.”

Gary’s mostly asleep. It feels like an effort to make his lips form the words. “I know,” he says, fumbling a bit across the bed. He threads their fingers together, loose. “Glad you didn’t.”

“Good,” Jamie mumbles, forehead against Gary’s shoulder. “Glad I didn’t either.”

Gary smiles in the dark, eyes already shut.

 

-

 

It's the same dream he's had for a long time. He's in Wembley Stadium, and it's completely empty. He knows he has to find something, so he's walking up and down the aisles, checking the seats, but he can't find it. He looks up and the seats stretch far away, farther than the eye can see, rows and rows of brilliant red plastic arrayed on top of each other in dizzying stacks, disappearing into the white horizon. He's moving faster now, knowing somehow that he must find it before time runs out, so he's running, scrambling between the rows, tripping over the discarded post match detritus- he has to find it, and it's not under this chair, or this one, but he'll keep going-

 

Someone's yelling something from a very long distance away. The muffled sounds dissolve into actual words, like finally tuning to a radio station from static. He looks up and he's back in the confines of the stadium. He's annoyed, because he hasn't found what he was looking for yet, but the voice keeps calling.

“-Gary. Gary. Gary, wake up. Come on. Come on wake up. Look I’ll wear your Manc jersey. You want to see that? Wake up. Come on. Jesus Christ Neville come on.”

 

Something hits his face with a cold shock. Gary opens his eyes. A fleshy red blur coalesces into Jamie’s face. The look of jarring relief in his eyes makes Gary wake up more fully and he croaks, “Carragher, for fuck’s sake. Don’t make me wish I was still asleep.”

 

Jamie laughs, slaps Gary’s stomach with the flat of his palm. Gary curls up, laughing weakly, ignoring the hysterical edge to both their voices. Jamie stops abruptly and sighs. He rests his arms on Gary’s chest for a bit, then leans his forehead there. Gary’s hands settle on his shoulders automatically.

 

“It’s alright,” he says and Jamie grunts, but he stays there until both their breathing slows, Gary’s hands running absently over Jamie’s shoulders.

 

-

 

“You were asleep for thirteen hours,” Jamie says, handing him a cup of coffee.

Gary blows on the surface, making a face as he takes a sip. “Really?”

“Thought you were gone for sure.” Jamie turns away, wiping down the counter. It was already spotless.

Gary doesn't know what else to say, so he just sets the mug down and puts a hand tentatively on Jamie’s shoulder.

Jamie stiffens, and before Gary knows it he’s being shoved against the side of the dead fridge, Jamie’s head bent close. Gary’s hand knocks the mug sideways, hot liquid spilling over the top, and he swears, inadvertently clutching Jamie’s arm. Their foreheads and noses bump awkwardly, and Jamie has hesitant hands on his waist.

“I’m still here,” Gary says, unnecessarily.

“I know,” Jamie says gruffly. He slides his hands under Gary’s jumper, under his t- shirt, and Gary shivers.

“What's this?” Jamie says suddenly, sharply. He tips Gary's chin up, squinting at something on his neck.

“What?” Gary says, trying to push him off.

“How long have you had those red spots?” Jamie says. There's something like dread in his voice.

“Weeks. Right when I got here.” Gary says. “What?”

“They're symptoms,” Jamie says, baring his own neck. Gary looks at the red dots like pinpricks on Jamie's skin, mind a blank. “I saw mine this morning.”

 

-

 

They're sitting on the couch later, close enough for their knees to touch. The television's on, for once, and the announcer looks tired and shaken. The reports are still the same. There is no cure. There are hopes of isolating a vaccine, but as yet the preliminary results remain the same. The public should be aware of what could be symptoms of the disease: clusters of red dots under the jaw and behind the ear, onset of fatigue, joints aching.

Jamie snorts. “Half of that's still crap. My joints feel fine.”

“Maybe it's evolving. Maybe that's how they'll find a cure,” Gary says, looking at him. Jamie looks very ordinary, nose slightly wrinkled in a frown, elbows propped on his knees. His sweater's got two holes close together on the hem.

Gary says, “Hey, Jamie-“

Jamie snorts, “No one calls me that, for fuck’s sake, Gary. It’s not like we’re still in Sky Sports studio-“

Gary leans in through the last bit of space between them and kisses him.

 

-

 

“I fucking knew you were going to do it.”

“Shut up. For fuck’s sake. Shut up.”

“No. Admit it. You’ve wanted to do that since that one match where I told you to calm down when you screamed in my face.”

“You muppet, _we’ve had sex._ ”

Jamie leans over, conspiratorial leer on his face. “Yeah?”

Gary glares at him half heartedly and starts laughing, sinking back against the couch. “Shit,” he says, chest lightening infinitely for no good reason. He's fucking Jamie Carragher at the end of the world. The thought sets him off again, laughing until his stomach hurts.

 

Jamie’s not quite smiling beside him, and when Gary quiets down he reaches a hand out and pulls Gary closer, fingers warm on the back of his neck where Gary’s hair is starting to grow out, too long.

Jamie kisses him, rough and messy, and he could stay awake for a bit longer, he could.

 

When he wakes up the next morning Jamie’s staring straight at him. The expression on his face makes Gary reach out automatically - to reassure himself or Jamie, he doesn’t know.

It's very quiet outside, and he shouldn't be noticing it anymore, but he is. Someone once said silence happens when the external environment makes less noise than the internal, that there’s no such thing as the true absence of noise on Earth. But whoever’d said it is probably asleep now.

Gary feels the quiet between them like something made out of glass, like if they make the wrong move it'll shatter and come crashing down around their ears.

Jamie's face looks strange in the blue dawn. It helps that he can't see him properly even with both eyes wide open.

There seems little he can say or do now except this, so he leans over to the bedside table and rummages around inside the drawer until he finds what he's looking for. Carra looks at him the entire time he's working two fingers inside himself, his jaw clenched a little because the lube is cold and everything feels a little strange, off-kilter. When he finally sinks down on Jamie's lap, agonizingly slow, a hand levered against the bedpost, Jamie hisses out a curse or something – it couldn't be his name – muffled against the side of his neck, thrusting up into him. Gary bites down on his shoulder, half laughing and breathless.

“Calm down,” he says. They're skin to skin and Gary feels like they're overheating even in the pre-dawn chill. He moves, experimental, but Jamie makes a disgruntled sound and then Gary's on his back, Jamie's hand against the back of his knee.

It's a better angle, even though with every thrust the top of his head hits the wall a little and he's getting this absurd urge to laugh again, spreading his fingers wide on Jamie's back and pressing hard like he could take this and keep it going even though he knows it'll be over too soon.

Halfway through Jamie’s hips suddenly slow and his head hangs and he makes a noise that sounds almost like a sob. Gary doesn't want to laugh anymore. He wants everything to unbreak and he wants to put his clothes back on and drive home. Instead he says weakly, “Don’t slow down, you twat,” pulling at Jamie's arm.

It does the trick. Jamie huffs out something that could be a laugh, but he carries on moving.

He says, “ _Gary_ ,” again after all and wraps a hand around Gary's dick and pumps him until Gary comes, biting the inside of his mouth, the heel of his right foot digging into Jamie's back, the room washing out and fading back in spots of colour. Jamie doesn't last much longer after that, and then he's rolling away, Gary's skin prickling from the sudden chill left where Jamie's warmth had been.

Jamie's hand trails lazily down his knee, then up his ribcage. Gary remembers he's supposed to be frightened, but he's not. He's just exhausted, something hurting in his chest that has dulled to a low throb, like a week old bruise.

Hasn't he accepted it already? Closed his eyes to his fate? There’s nothing he can do. Jamie's hand finds his in the space on the bed between them and he doesn't let go.

 

-

 

“It might not be a symptom at all,” Gary says.

“It is.”

“Nothing's proven.”

“It happened to Nicola first. And then Mia. And then James had it,” Jamie says, not looking at him.

“None of the doctors said there's a clear symptom,” Gary carries on, stubborn. “And how do you explain me? I've had it for a couple weeks.”

Jamie shakes his head. “I don't know. But I reckon our chances of waking up every day are getting lower than ever.” He laughs, trying for derisive but instead just sounding hollow.

“Nothing's proven,” Gary says again, and they leave the conversation at that.

 

-

 

Jamie stops going to work, phones hospital early in the morning when the lines work to tell them of his condition. They'll set an alarm system up, and if Jamie doesn't shut it off in the mornings the hospital will send people to get them. “You'd want to get back to Manchester?” he asks, phone held up to his ear.

 

Gary says around his toothbrush, “Doesn't matter.” Jamie stares at him, then nods, wordless.

 

The next two days pass slower, like they've been covered in treacle. It's strange with Jamie in the house during the mornings as well. They don't go out much, except around the neighborhood. Gary catches him doing keepy uppies in the kitchen.

“Carragher!” he calls from the living room. Jamie turns around and the ball bounces off the counter, crashes into a pile of dishes. Gary laughs him and Jamie swears.

“Pass it,” Gary says, getting up. Jamie drop kicks it gently through the doorway, and Gary bounces it on his instep. He does all the old tricks, marveling at the way he doesn't fumble even when it's been ages since he's done them, until he does and it rolls away under the coffee table.

Jamie leans against the doorway, smirking at him. Gary's sitting on the floor, trying to get at the ball with his foot.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing,” Jamie says, grinning. “Nothing. Pasta for dinner?”

 

“What are you going to do if I don’t wake up?” Jamie says that night, when they're lying next to each other, clothes on, shoulders pressed together.

Gary thinks about it for a bit. “Go back to Manchester.”

Jamie snorts. They lie shoulder to shoulder, quiet. Then Jamie says, “You should go to Australia.”

Gary turns his head to look at him, even though it was dark and Jamie was just a blurry shape. “What if I don’t wake up?”

Jamie doesn’t say anything.

“You should go,” Gary says. The house is silent and the streets outside are silent, too.

 

“Hey,” Gary says suddenly, driving his elbow into Jamie’s ribs. It's lightening up outside, violet colored from behind the curtains. “Hey. Carragher. Stay awake.”

Jamie grunts. “Fuck off, Neville.”

“I mean it. Come on. Just a little bit longer.”

Jamie sighs beside him, but he sounds more alert. “What? What do you want to do?”

“Wait till the sun comes up, okay?” Gary says, and he smiles a little, not seeing but knowing that Jamie’s rolling his eyes.

They get out of bed and feel their way up the stairs to the attic, because it’s got the biggest windows and a view all the way to the Mersey glinting in the distance. Jamie sprawls against the windowsill, eyes slitted. Gary settles beside him, his back to the tender dawn about to burst over the horizon, watching the shadows slide on the opposite wall. It's strange; in his exhausted state it feels like it could be evening, the light belonging to either sunset or sunrise, indistinguishable.

“Sun’s coming up,” Jamie slurs, eyes half shut.

“Oi,” Gary says, shaking his shoulder gently. “Tell me about Anfield on match day.”

Jamie laughs, “Fuck. I should be recording you saying this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gary cajoles. “Come on. Keep talking. I won’t understand more than two words of what you’re saying but whatever it takes to keep you awake.”

“Anfield on match day. They’ll be singing _You Never Walk Alone,_ ” Jamie says, sleepy voice worsening his accent to a soft burr. “None of that speaker bullshit, they’ll be singing because we're playing Manchester United, right? And we hate Mancs, right. They’ll be singing Stevie’s song, and there’s banners all over the Kop…"

His voice slows and stops but Gary’s not really listening to him anyway, his mind on another team in red, another stadium, another time. In Old Trafford with Becks by his side just raring to go, blonde hair too long and slicked back with gel. Scholesy, Ryan, Phil on his other side, stepping from foot to foot. The stands are packed with red shirts, and every one of them's singing. Their voices mix with the sound of a single siren, far away, drifting on the wind. Gary tips forward and slides his arms around Jamie, digs his chin into his shoulder. He can feel the sun on his eyelids. Everything is red, and quiet.

  
The sun comes up on Merseyside, and Gary falls asleep.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was a Trip to write lmao. A week of caffeine fueled repeated listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OgC-6tBc3ts), and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=odbuoZAr4qk) and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hGHvjq9FvyM). I don't normally tack music on to the end of things but I think this entire fic would be very different if I hadn't been listening to those albums. Heh. 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


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